


Spaces Between (Fool Me Again Series-Pt 4)

by JohnQKole



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M, FoolMeAgain, Lovin', Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnQKole/pseuds/JohnQKole
Summary: As Beckett and Castle's 'arrangement' continues to develop into something more, Castle decides to take Kate out for a day of fun while she's on administrative leave. Follows 'Wine and Water' in the series. Could be read on its own but makes more sense with the other stories.
Relationships: Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Spaces Between (Fool Me Again Series-Pt 4)

_A/N-Hey all. After a break, here's a Castle fic. This is the fourth installment in the Fool Me Again series. Although it's been a while and this may not be the most appropriate time for stories, I hope it’s enjoyable. Everyone stay safe out there!_

* * *

Somehow Castle ended up in Beckett’s bed this morning, and the previous night, and there are at least a hundred reasons he’s still glad he responded to her _Busy?_ text. This is a damn good place to be. 

Beckett is lying next to him, her face resting on the upper part of his chest, each sweaty and satisfied and relaxed. After everything that happened with Coonan, he feared it would drive them apart, but after the connection they made the night before, he thinks this truly seems _closer._

The feelings he’s had that he’s kept behind a steel door so far have been slipping through the cracks and around the edges, and now he’s struggling to keep that door closed. Especially since Lanie mentioned that she thinks Kate’s feelings for him may be more than physical. 

“Texting your next conquest?” she teases as he grabs his phone from the nightstand and reads his messages. (He’d done a bit of quick planning while she slept the night before). 

He answers, “I’ll give you a little peek into the glamorous life of Richard Castle…recently the majority of my texts come from cops and women I’m related to.”

Kate chuckles, sliding off him to the side until her hip hits the mattress. “I need to get a shower,” she says, the words sounding a little like a possible invitation. 

“Hurry,” he warns, trying not to be too distracted by whatever she’s suggesting.

“Hurry? Isn’t that the best part about being put on administrative leave? I don’t have anything to do.”

“You don’t have _work_ to do. I told you last night, we should do something fun. That’s what we’re going to do...something fun.”

“Did I agree to that?”

“You did.” He stares at her, her chin on her hand on his chest, and he sees the gears turning in her mind. “Or was I right? You can admit that you like working with me, and admit that you like fucking me, but it _terrifies_ you that you might enjoy being with me in those spaces between the two aforementioned circumstances.”

“Where did you say we’re going?”

“I didn’t. Have a little faith, Beckett. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

Her face becomes suddenly animated, prepared to list an entire litany of examples, but he presses a finger over her lips.

He coaxes, “Come on, come have fun with me,” and is more than a little shocked when she agrees before darting into the shower.

_Convincing her wasn’t nearly as difficult as anticipated._

* * *

Kate tries not to react to the amount of excited energy that is coming from Castle. He’s nearing a stage that could clearly be considered giddy. He drives upstate, the journey taking longer than she expected, but she’s not even sure she minds. Maybe, for today, it’s best to forget the suspension and cases and death. 

The city gives way to wintery, leafless trees and long stretches of unbroken road. 

Kate messes with the radio, feeling out of place in the passenger’s seat. Just when she’s about ready to tell him to get out of the car and let her drive, he jumps ahead of her and says, “So what, exactly, is it that you love most about the way I fuck?”

She chokes on nothing as she hears the words, asking only, “Huh?” when she’s able.

“Last night, you said—“

“Yea. I remember—”

“I’ll go first,” he loudly declares. “You’re so blatantly into it. Your body is completely ridiculous, which I’m sure you already know, but it seems like if I don’t at least _mention_ it, you’ll think it’s gone unnoticed.” He takes a breath like he had much to say, “I like that you _know_ what you want, you’re not afraid to make that clear, which is very, very sexy. Those are just the headlines.”

“Well, th—”

“Oh, and you’re vocal. God, how I love how vocal you are. Now what about you?” he asks. Sensing that she might back out, he says, “Come on, I just bared some pretty serious pieces of myself to you. Give me something.”

“Uh. I like how you touch me,” she starts tentatively.

“Okay...” he replies prompting for something more.

“I mean, the _way_ you touch me. Your hands. I like the...feeling of them all over me. Normally the fact that you can’t keep your hands off anything makes me crazy, but I really enjoy it during sex.” 

“So it still drives you crazy, but in a different kind of way. But continue, don’t let me interrupt.”

“You...you seem to get that sex is about more than finishing. It’s indulgent, like shared hedonism from start to finish. In a very good way.”

“Why not truly indulge in the experience?” Waiting a few moments, he adds like he’s been dying to find out, but doesn't want to let on, "Anything I should stop doing, or do that I’m not doing?”

“Why?” she suspiciously counters. “Is there something you’re not—”

“I’m happy. I’m very, very satisfied, far _beyond_ satisfied. But if there’s something I should change, I’d rather know. We can only stand to benefit from shared honesty.”

“I’m sleeping with a guy with great endurance, imagination, who pays attention to detail, can’t keep his hands to himself, and likes to put stuff in his mouth,” she says, her own chuckle heard even when she tries to hide it. Since he still seems to have questions, she adds, “I have no complaints or requests.”

“If you did...you’d tell me?”

“Yea, Castle. I’d tell you. Or I’d show you, but...I _really_ like the things we do.”

“I do, too!” He grins at her, filled with enthusiasm. 

“Good,” she replies, finding herself grinning with just as much vigor. Her arm leaning on the armrest between them, she suggests, “Talk is cheap when actions are more effective. Want to find a good place to—”

"Oh, I do. I really do, but we can’t waste time.”

“Why?”

“We need daylight.”

* * *

Eventually the unbroken trees lining the roads open. 

There’s a clearing, a parking lot made of stone pavers with brownish winter weeds shooting up from any crevice that holds enough dirt to grow in. “Where are we?” she asks, baffled.

He doesn’t answer as the car’s shocks are tested on the uneven surface. This looks like a place where cars are expected to park, although there are none today. Rounding a bend, there’s a sign that should be lit up but is dull, with the words _Family Funland_ written in script that was supposed to appear futuristic back in the 1950s. 

There is one car parked near the entrance and picnic pavilions on either side, all without occupants. It looks like a ghost town where a little carnival park used to be. “So we drove all this way to be the victims in the opening sequence of a horror movie,” she decides.

“If things get dicey, put on a skimpy bikini and run into the nearest barn, you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“I mean...I’m sure it’s fun...when it’s open.”

He gets out of the car after finding a spot to park (not that it was hard, only one spot was previously taken). Hurrying to her side, he opens her door for her and says, “Don’t fight it. Just let the fun happen.”

As she prepares to tell him _I can’t wait to pretend to ride,_ she hears the sound of an old metal roller coaster shaking the tracks behind her, and sees the lights on the sign flicker to life. He reaches out his hand and (wearing Richard Castle’s version of a nervous expression) waits for her to join him.

She accepts his hand even though she feels like she should make a joke of it. 

Castle walks so quickly his excitement is laid plain. They hurry to the entrance, finding just one of the chain link gates with a heavy padlock opened so they can get in.

They aren’t more than ten feet into the park when a man hops out from behind a concession stand and grabs Castle with an arm around the neck. Kate’s instincts kick in immediately, subduing the man and getting him to the ground, standing over him with a foot at the center of his chest as she reaches for a gun that isn’t there. 

The man smiles up at Rick and says, “Oh, I like her.”

Kate’s head tilts as she looks at him, and Castle takes her arm to bring her away from the man before reaching out to help his friend from the ground. “Kate Beckett, this Martin Langhorn. He owns the park.”

He stands with a broad smile and a boyish playfulness that reminds her of Castle. “Marty,” he corrects, shaking her hand. 

Kate apologizes “Sorry about the—” 

Marty interrupts jovially, “I thought Ricky was bringing his girlfriend, not a bodyguard.”

“She’s a detective, she’s _the_ detective,” Castle quickly says, likely to bypass the subject of labelling entirely. 

“Come on,” the owner says, leading the way.

Kate listens while the men catch up, the reunion clearly a pleasant one. She wishes he’d tell her the story that led to all of this. There’s an office behind a ticket booth with several bays for customers to make purchases. They go into the warm, fluorescent-lit room that seems like it, too, was decorated a few decades ago. Inside she meets Angie, Martin’s wife, watching the genuine affection they have for Castle. This all feels quite strange, and part of her wonders if this is a dream she’s having.

Beckett finds herself going to the comfort of investigation. There are many photos that line the walls, atop filing cabinets, and on desks. This couple has history, spanning back to what appears to be their school days. There are photos of university graduations, kids, and even the day they purchased this park. The most interesting photo is a wedding one, because Beckett is absolutely certain the best man is none other than a very young Richard Castle.

She gasps loudly enough to be heard, heading back to those other high school and college pictures to search again in a game of _Where’s Castle?_ And she finds him again in another wedding photo, but this time he joins her. “You were just a kid!” she says, wishing it didn’t sound so fond. “You all went to school together?”

“Well,” Castle explains, “I attended a few schools, one with Marty. Some of New York’s finer institutions didn’t specialize in my areas of interest.”

“Got kicked out?” she asks.

“Just my way of requesting reassignment,” he counters.

“Poor Martha,” Kate sighs.

He looks younger and thinner in those pictures, but just as mischievous (maybe even more so), and she’s quite certain that young man broke his fair share of hearts long before he had wealth and success. She feels a little disappointed that she never had the chance to know him as he was back when these pictures were taken. 

“Don’t let us keep you,” Angie chimes in. “Better get on those rides while the sun’s out. Once it’s dark it’ll be far too cold.” 

“There are people who can run the rides throughout the park,” Marty states. “You should be able to get on whatever you want."

Castle nods, directing Beckett to follow, and they hurry out the door. Castle gives her a tour of the park, telling stories as they go. Curiosity getting the better of her, Kate asks, “Your friend graduated from MIT? I saw the photos.”

“Yea,” Castle agrees. “He was an engineer. Angie was a corporate lawyer. Vicious from what I’ve heard.” He adds to himself, “Too bad she didn’t handle divorces.”

“Was?” she asks.

“Well, as they tell it, Angie woke up one ordinary Wednesday and realized she and Marty only seemed to see each other in passing and their kids knew the nanny better than them. So she called off sick and convinced Marty to do the same, although he’d tell you she kidnapped him. They grabbed the kids and came up here to a place she came as a girl. They had a great time, laughed, watched their kids play. On the way out, they saw a big 'for sale' sign on the front gate. Marty made a joke about leaving the world behind, and moving out here to run the park. I guess she found the suggestion more spectacular than funny. That night she ran the figures. They sold the penthouse and the luxury cars, bought an old two-story they renovated, a sensible sedan, and here they are.”

She ponders this as she looks around and takes in the park, clean and well-maintained, filled with classic rides. 

“Flaming Comet,” Castle announces, getting her attention. 

She looks at the entrance to a ride of that name, the two winding through the complex support and beam structure that runs beneath part of the wooden roller coaster. _Why not?_

When they get to the top, there’s a young woman, probably in her late teens, reading a book with her feet up on the console. She seems startled when she realizes she’s not alone. 

This ride is well cared for but very old, clearly original to the park. The chain in the track clanks and crunches as it pulls the car up where Beckett and Castle are buckled in. This is pretty ridiculous, doing such a silly thing on an ordinary (although pretty brisk) day. Beckett isn’t sure how he came up with this, or why he’s doing it, but when they round the top of the hill they’ve been ascending and she looks down at the plummeting drop to come, she grins uncontrollably, throwing her hands up in the air to await that plunge that will send her heart racing, adrenaline pumping, and senses reeling. The following seconds do not disappoint. 

She hears her own voice laughing, “Wooo,” as they finish, the sound nearly foreign. She turns to see Castle, wondering what he’s thinking or doing. His wrist is resting on the front part of the car, but he’s sort of facing her, watching, a content expression coloring the look of him.

“Wanna go around again?” he asks.

Before she can formulate a response, she’s nodding. 

The next few hours, they go from ride to ride, the handful of attendants working the park filling in to run the attractions for them. There are some fun rides here, a few fast spinning ones, a small wooden coaster and a larger old steel one. There’s a haunted house and sky ride up into the hills that they haven’t even ridden yet. It’s almost impossible not to have fun, both because this is a really cool little park (with no other riders to hold up the lines) and because Castle is having so much fun she imagines it would radiate to her even if she weren’t already enjoying herself. His joy is hard to resist.

* * *

The haunted house is old and eerie, even the things added in later years aged to keep that look about it. It’s dark, with disorienting flashing lights and ghouls popping up on timed springs. It has the creepiness and ambiance of a black-and-white horror movie, like they managed to step into the reels. This is his favorite old-school haunted house.

“So what ever happened to Ryker?” he asks as she peers carefully around the corner, using the same caution she would when approaching a potential engagement with a suspect.

“Huh?” she asks over her shoulder, returning her focus to sweeping the oncoming room (he swears her impulse is to at least locate and ready her field weapon, even if she doesn’t pull it). She seems sort of naked without it.

“Special Agent Ryker? The DEA agent you teamed up with recently, the one willing to take you to the big leagues?”

Her expression is one of perplexed annoyance for a second, but she pushes him back when a clown pops out from a door, like she’s protecting him here, too. (He’s not sure how she knew to anticipate it, but he’ll ask about that another time. “You know, it’s not as fun if you try to predict and disarm the scares,” he mentions.

“Cop,” she reminds. 

“But it’s more fun if—”

She turns to him and says, “Every case we’ve done together, you use that imagination of yours to come up with wild stories to explain what happened to make things make sense. In theory, thinking like that has no place in an investigation, but that’s who you are, and it isn’t entirely unhelpful.”

“Maybe we should review some of our cases for the number of times my ‘wild stories’ have ended up—”

“Tell enough wild stories, and a few have to be right,” she interjects. “But my point is, you are who you are even in a formal police investigation, and I am who I am even when we’re here.”

He ponders this for a moment, thinking of something he might do to scare her while she’s busy searching what’s in front of her. Then he wonders if it’s worth receiving whatever her immediate defensive reaction may be. 

“How should I know?” she says, jumping slightly and turning toward the wildly flashing lights on one pop-up scare she hadn’t been ready for. (He’s pleased something took her by surprise).

“How should you know what?”

“What Ryker’s up to,” she explains like he should be keeping up with these leaps in conversation.

“Last I heard, he was going to call you.”

“Well, the day he was supposed to call me, I spent with you. No regrets, was a good day.” Then, with one sexy-as-hell look that reminds him how much she impacts him, she adds simply, “A _really_ good day.”

For a short while, her response satisfies him. They make it through the first section on foot, stepping into a ride car designed to look like a traditional UFO. The track is so old and rickety it lurches and squeals, but that’s part of the appeal. 

Then he remembers she’s avoided the question in some ways, and he says, “So he never called you?”

She chuckles, and he tries to decipher if she’s reveling in the ride or his squirming. “He did. We were supposed to go to some new gym he was checking out. I’ve always wanted to try top-roping, and he offered to belay me.”

Castle isn’t sure exactly what it is that she wants to try, but no matter what it is, he’s willing to try it with her. “You don’t need him for that. I’m more than willing to top-rope and b’lay you. I think I’m pretty good at b’laying you if—”

“Rock climbing, Castle. It’s not sexual.”

The moment she says it, he remembers the meanings of the words and realizes how much he was scrambling to fill whatever position she has open. 

They both jump when a swamp monster pops up from the murk, splashing them. Beckett kind of chuckles once she knows the scare is nothing to worry about. _Is it weird that her chuckle is kind of a turn-on deep in his chest?_

When her attention is back to the path before them, he says, “Unless he’s completely lost his mind, I’m sure you’ll hear from him again. Probably hard for you to fit in time to go out with work and other engagements, and the fact that I’ve been...keeping you busy...”

She turns, her stare quizzical and curious, and she nods and looks back at the path, jolting slightly at the next scare, too. “Castle…” she asks, her voice teasing, “are you trying to figure out if I’m seeing other men?”

“No,” he says, but nods his head in affirmation.

“Is it fine for you to sleep with whomever you wish, but I should—”

He interrupts proudly, “Are you trying to figure out if I’m seeing other women?”

She pretends to be distracted by a zombie that pops up before them, but he knows that one didn’t even faze her.

There’s no way he’s letting her off the hook. “I’m not, since you’re _clearly_ trying to figure it out. Been kinda busy with you lately...not sure I have the energy for anyone else.”

“But what if you did have the energy?” she asks boldly, staring at him like there isn’t manufactured chaos all around them.

The lights flash all around, strobing and swiping, making this interchange even more tense than it would be without. Several things scream or pop up around them that should elicit a response, but they’re both far too distracted by their little stand-off. 

“I can’t imagine why I’d want to,” he says loudly enough to be heard, sort of answering, but she still seems to be picking the pieces apart in her mind in search of a loophole (it’s not like he directly answered the question). 

They step off the ride at the end, finding themselves in a section of the funhouse that’s meant to look like dark jungle with dangling vines and spider webs. “So is this a typical interrogation where you ask all of the questions and don’t answer any?” he half-jokes.

“I’m not sleeping with Ryker. Or anyone else, present company excluded,” she answers very directly. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Obvious how?” he asks. 

He feels her shrug, but she doesn’t really answer.

When they step out into the sun, both squint, trying to adjust to the brightness. “Clearly a man like me _could_ find the resources to entertain additional companions,” he says, boldly self-aggrandizing. The real answer comes more sweetly. “But I’m not.”

A quick and pleased flash of approval crosses her face, built on a foundation of emotions he can’t all identify, but he’s pretty sure everything he’s seeing bodes well for him.

“Why bother with second best?” he flirts.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but that smile is there, and she whispers a word that dives straight to his heart, “Good.” 

He takes her over to one of the few concession booths that’s lit up (signaling it’s unlocked for them). They walk into the preparation area where typically only employees are allowed, the open bay at the front shuttered and locked. It’s only a little warmer in here, but it feels nice.

Castle immediately begins to dig through the items available, constantly curious. She’s watching him (as always, it seems). 

“Drink?” he asks, holding up a disposable cup and pointing at a fountain drink dispenser.

“Tell me if you do, okay?” she says, quite soberly.

“If I want a drink?” he clarifies.

“If you start seeing other women. I don’t want to be one of several you juggle at once.”

“Are you asking me to—”

“I’m asking you to be upfront with me. I don’t want to find out you’re sleeping with other women because one shows up at the precinct or I hear someone in the background when I call you about a case. I’m asking for honesty so I know where I stand.”

He sets the drink on the grate of the dispenser and turns to her. “Will you let me know if you’re…” he shakes his head, the shift in him so strong it’s practically accompanied by the sound of screeching brakes. “I don’t want to be one-of-several-men either.” The joke is missing from his voice. 

“You aren’t,” she says gently, a soft reassuring look at the end. “I’m okay with keeping things...just the two of us. To avoid complications.”

“Practical reasons,” he agrees. 

“Exactly,” she answers professionally, covering her concerns.

“I mean…” he comes close, one arm slipping behind her, “I find I’m more than satisfied from the limited time we spend together.”

“Me too.”

“Although maybe we could get rid of that stupid ‘not during cases’ rule so we aren't limited to such narrow windows of time.”

She offers a look to shoot him down, but he adds, “Think about it...think about the nights we’re together, the stress-relieving qualities of our shared time, the exercise. Also I sleep really well in the few seconds of the night you let me rest.”

She scoffs a giggle, “If it’s too much, then it’s good you have case-time to recuperate.”

“It's just the right amount of too much.” His lips coming closer to hers, he confesses, “It’s killing me not to touch you right now.”

“Seems cruel to make you suffer,” she flirts, offering her lips to him (although it feels like she’s offering so much more), and says, “You finally ready to find somewhere to—”

He shakes his head, “Don’t have much time to enjoy the park. Come on.”

In a second, they have drinks and are out the door. What he can’t tell her is that, deep down, he wants the chance to prove that she _does_ enjoy spending time with him, even without cases or sex. He’s fun, and he wants to show her he can bring fun to her, too. And he truly thinks she is having a good time. 

* * *

When they’re near the front of the park later that day, Castle suggests they pop into the office for the warming drink that Angie offered them earlier whenever they needed it. 

Marty asks Castle to look over their website and ‘re-word’ the ad a bit, so Kate sits alone with Angie, unaccustomed to these couple-like situations where pairs of friends diverge at some point and she’s left with a person she’s supposed to be friends with, but doesn’t even know. Angie hands Beckett a warm mug filled with some sort of hot cider that’s generously spiked with rum. 

“It’s really good,” Kate compliments. “Thank you.”

She asks questions about the park and running it, small talk to fill the silence and avoid unwanted topics, but Angie finds an open moment and asks, “You and Rick have been together a while?”

Kate shakes her head, wordless at first, unsure how to handle the implied and direct questions asked. “Oh, no. I mean...we’re not... _together_.”

Angie breathes a chuckle, but sips her drink without comment. 

“What?” Beckett asks.

“He seems...like himself with you, finally.”

“How do you mean?”

“We’ve known Ricky a long time. For the most part, I’d say he’s his authentic self more often than most people. But once he hit the best sellers list, he seemed to start dating the women he thought he _should_ like instead of the ones he actually _did_. I mean...have you met Gina?”

Kate nods, “The night I met Castle, actually. I went to some book party, they were both there.”

“He brought you as his date?”

“God, no. I went there to pick him up and bring him in for questioning in a murder investigation. I didn’t know who she was at the time, but she looked really happy when I identified myself and told her I needed to ask him some questions.”

“Now that’s a good story,” Angie gleams, "At his wedding, to Gina that is, when we were leaving, Marty told me he’d never seen Rick so thoroughly miserable beneath it all. He was right. Rick was all smiles and jokes, but he was miserable. I don’t think he thought he was, but he was.”

“That’s too bad.” 

“He’s never brought a date up here, all these years. I can’t imagine any of them enjoying a place like this. It’s nice to see him with a woman he seems to actually like,” Angie returns to the previous subject.

“Well, he’s just used to me. We spend a lot of time together. Working.”

“But he obviously hopes for more than ‘working’?”

“I’ve known him long enough to know that Castle is _not_ interested in anything serious.”

“Well, I don’t know much about ‘Richard Castle,’ but I know Rick very well, probably better than he wants me to. And _Rick_ is interested.”

Beckett chuckles and then says, “You sound like a woman we work with.” And while she shakes her head and denies whatever was said to her, her eyes find Castle as he walks back into the office, and she feels that electrified zap when he looks at her with a subtle little smile driven by whatever it is that they share. 

* * *

As the sun sets, the temperature drops with every sliver of light that disappears from the sky. Castle walks hurriedly back to the rickety steel roller coaster and the two climb the stairs to take a few last spins. The kid working that section of the park hurries up to the station to run the ride for them. Turning toward the teen, Castle asks, “You like rides?”

“Love ‘em,” the kid replies.

“Show me what to do, so you can have a turn.”

The teen hesitates for a minute or so, then starts to point to controls and explain how the ride works. He hurries over to the front seat, pulls his knit hat down over his ears and buckles the belt and nods that he’s ready. 

Castle hits the buttons and watches the ride take off. He tries to think of something to say, finding himself uncharacteristically without words. It feels like everything he truly wants to say cannot be said. And then he feels something so icy that it stings across his sides, finding Beckett between his body and the ride console, her fingers up under his shirt. “Cold!” he cries.

“My fingers were freezing,” she says, her eyes showing a myriad of mischievous and playful intentions. 

“Yes, I know.”

“Poor baby,” she teases. 

He’s prepared to admonish or defend, but his words evaporate again when she comes closer, her body layered in clothing pressing against his. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, and although it’s not really believable, her face tilts invitingly toward his. “I can warm you back up.”

His head bobs only just, but damn her lips are somehow nice and warm as they meet his. In spite of the fact that he should return the favor and stick his chilly digits against the unprotected skin beneath her shirt, his hand goes to her face because he wants to hold her, to encourage that kiss. His other hand finds the center of her back, pushing her body to his. And damn this kiss is hot and sweet, tender yet hungry, and so warming she could drop an iceberg down his back if she wanted to, and he thinks he’d keep right on kissing her. 

She pulls away suddenly, and he wonders why just as much as he wonders why she’s kissing him in the first place so far outside of their typical encounters. Clearly making out up here won’t lead to sex (if the pretense is supposed to be their relationship is physical), and he’s filled with whys and hows and whats. He’s not certain what he did to stop this confusing moment, but he sees no reason for it to end now that they’ve started.

The coaster car thunders through the covered docking area and continues on, and as soon as the car is through, she’s back against him, picking up where they left off like they were never interrupted. And for once, she’s comfortable with this show of affection without leading things into more familiar sexual territory. That part is definitely something he notes.

He notes, too, the way she hums a soft approval as she pulls away before the car returns, coming back for one more gently swift brush of lips before she turns to look at the control panel. 

The car clatters past them again, and he says, “Wanna learn how to do it?”

Seeing the immediate beginnings of her misinterpretation, he points at the panel and explains, “How to run the ride...”

“Sure,” she replies, still suspicious (but he does so enjoy her suspicion).

He steps up behind her, his chin practically on her shoulder as he stands with his chest to her back. “This one is an emergency shut off,” he notes reaching his arm further around her like he needs to in order to demonstrate. 

“Okay,” she replies leaning back, putting just the slightest amount of additional pressure against his ribs. 

When her shoulders still haven’t begun to lift in defense, he reaches his other arm around her, holding her close. “And these two are the ‘go’ buttons. Both have to be pressed. Obviously we already used those.”

Her hand covers his (the one on her stomach) and she nods as she leans to study the buttons. He tells her more about the one to stop, and ones used for maintenance, and ones to call for help, but he’s not certain if she’s at all interested one way or the other.

The one thing he knows for sure is that she’s staying right there in his arms as the car clashes through the corral for one last circling. This whole day sure as hell feels like more than friendship or a casual arrangement. It feels...romantic, affectionate, like they’re building on the connection from before. Whatever they have feels like a sunburst, full of electrical heat and temperature heat and light heat.

She pulls away just a little to stop the car when it comes through this time and they both hop on the ride for their turn. She screams slightly at a few of the plunges and twists, sounds of enjoyment and surprise. 

* * *

This is their last ride since the sun has already set, and they’ve extended their outdoor time for longer than they probably should have. Kate and Castle are on a sky ride, much like a ski lift, feet dangling from a suspended chair as they look around. This ride is slower, the cold breeze hitting them directly without buildings or anything to provide any shelter. 

The slowness also gives her time to consider the ways this ride could go wrong, how they could get stuck, or a freak accident could snap the steel wire that’s keeping them aloft. Her eyes find the regularly spaced towers, gently lit, and the ladders down them…

“Are you making contingency plans?” he accusingly interrupts her thoughts.

“What?”

“You’re looking for an escape route in case something goes wrong with this ride!”

“No, I’m…” she shakes her head and confesses, “That’s who I am, part of my training, making sure I have a plan to safely evacuate a situation if it becomes dangerous or unmanageable.”

“Always?”

“Whenever possible.”

“But you may spend so much time looking for a way out that you miss what’s going on in the moment. Maybe you should think less about escaping and spend more time being.”

His words hit close to a mark, and she momentarily feels the need to put some serious space between them, but short of leaping onto one of those sky-high towers to climb away, she’s kind of stuck. 

She shivers (probably from the cold and that _feeling_ he sometimes gives her). He puts his arm behind her, although he doesn’t pull her in. It feels like she can’t resist moving toward him and feeling the warmth of his body, and, once she does, he holds her closer. 

“It’s really cold up here,” he admits, his hand settling on her arm to surround her. “Maybe a place like this wasn’t the _best_ idea for a winter outing.” Suddenly, he seems a bit disappointed, and as much as his overconfidence can be infuriating, she doesn’t like it when he seems to feel defeated.

“It was an amazing time, Castle,” she says, her forthrightness surprising even her. 

“Really?”

“I had so much fun.”

The words hang in the air, although they say little else. Those feelings created, the awkwardness of offering affection that could be rejected, the excitement of growing feelings, the thrills of this place, remind her of her youth and dates and summer days at parks. They don’t seem to belong here together, and yet now that they’re here, it feels like it was destined to be.

The ride turns at the top and begins to head back down, the pair descending to the base of this hill, at which time they’ll leave this park and the day will end. Parts of her wish it could go on forever, and she imagines (briefly) telling him exactly that. 

He is quiet, looking around a bit, his arm still tightly around her. The side of her body next to his is so toasty compared to the rest of her. Then she wonders what he’s thinking as he’s so contemplative, and she says, “Thinking about your escape route, too? It’s hard not to.”

It takes a moment for him to turn toward her, and his face (at least as best as she can see it by stars and the relatively dim light of the park) seems truly perplexed. His answer takes a while to emerge, but he shakes his head, looking away at the last second before he says, “I can’t think of anything I’d want to escape from.”

* * *

The ride to the hotel is short and quiet. There’s no need to articulate the desire that connects them, it beats through their veins, fires through their synapses. His mind pleads with the universe not that this _is_ something more (because he already knows it is), but that she’s willing to acknowledge it as such, preferably without implementing the escape plan he’s certain she’s already planned out, should one be necessary. 

In spite of the tension, the silence isn’t unpleasant. The air between them is thick, like a hazy-hot-and-humid August day, so dense it’s hard to take a really good breath. When he parks at the lodge where they’ll stay, the subtle curling at the corners of her mouth tells him she’s just as pleased to be here as he is, and that she’s already envisioning the night ahead of them. 

He wants _that_ night, the one she’s thinking of, every hot, charged, thrilling minute of it. But he hopes to keep the lighthearted romance of the day alive, too. After all, he’s shown her (rather effectively) the fun that can be had in those minutes between crimes and trysts, and she has admitted herself that she’s enjoyed it.

He’s so busy thinking about things that he hasn’t noticed that she’s left the car and is standing near the hood, waiting for him. Her knuckles tap the metal, jolting him out of his thoughts. She leans down and looks through the windshield, checking on him. 

Smiling quickly, Castle unbuckles and hurries out of the car, finding Beckett looking at him with some uncertain concern. “You alright?” she asks somewhat nervously. Her worry shows him that she does indeed know what’s going on, the possibilities they stand on the precipice of. 

“I’m fine. More than fine,” he answers reassuringly before gathering the small overnight bags they each packed from the trunk.

She walks close enough beside him that their shoulders brush as they enter the building.

As he checks in at the front desk, Beckett walks over to the massive fireplace, the mantle placed at nearly her full height. The fire within is massive, as fires in fireplaces go, welcoming those out enjoying more traditional wintery sports. For a flash, he considers a life where they might do things like this regularly. He wonders if she enjoys skiing, or even snowboarding or tubing, followed by evenings spent with hot drinks and warm blankets. 

Castle has spent nearly every day since they met trying to figure her out, learning everything that he can, but still he feels there’s so much he doesn’t know. And although there are those unknowns, and the many ways they seem like drastically different types of people, he can’t deny how right it all seems. 

This time he can really see it, feel it, hear it: her sheer _need_ for him. It is there, right on the surface as they reach their door, and he slides the key card into the lock. As soon as the door is open, he drops the bags on a shelf and his arm wraps around her, pulling her front to his, and lifts her slightly in his embrace as he turns into the room. The door is still hanging open when their lips meet in a patiently seething kiss. 

It’s difficult to care enough about the door to shut it, but they manage to, both of them reaching for the knob and the lock together, chuckling as they realize they’re working in unison here, too. He moves her body to the counter directly inside the room as the lock clicks shut, keeping her as close as he can. 

The only illumination comes from a safety light near the floor, and it’s just enough to offer shadowy glimpses. Many times in the last several weeks when they’ve started these encounters, he’s wondered if she’s going to stop him, or if he’ll do something that will prompt her to send him away.

He knows now that she won’t, at least not today. 

Castle has no idea how to describe or even interpret the rightness of the way she’s there, comfortably against him, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

He wants her to experience this as he does, to have their shared longing felt with undeniable truth in every single cell and thought. 

“Know what I want to do?” he asks as his hands clasp on her body to hold her against him.

“I have a few ideas about what may interest you,” she answers with a playful smirk, “but feel free to describe it all to me with words and actions.”

“I figured I’d do the things we both like best. You know, touch things, put my mouth on stuff,” he says, referencing the conversation they shared on their drive here earlier in the day.

She giggles, her face momentarily hidden against his shoulder. “I suppose I’ll allow it,” she teases. “The least I can do after everything you did today.” The playfulness is still present, but slightly augmented with appreciation. 

“You really had fun?” he asks, sounding more excited than he should probably let on. “Wasting a whole day doing nothing productive at all?”

“I did.” Then, a little reluctantly, she adds, “Doesn’t feel like a wasted day, though.”

“You should play more often. And I can’t think of anyone in the world better suited to facilitating that playtime than I.”

“Maybe I should,” she unexpectedly concurs.

“Really?”

“At the right times and places...yea. I liked today. I like...this.”

Speaking too quickly, he responds with the excitement he feels, “I liked today, too, and I like this, a lot and I think we—” he pauses suddenly interrupted by his own brakes that warn him to stop.

“We what?” she asks. The way she looks so open, her expression receptive, makes her seem so easy to talk to, to say everything that’s on (and has been on) his mind. 

But one false step and this fun little thing they have going on could be ruined. Maybe the “this” she's referring to isn’t the same " _this"_ that he’s thinking of. For a moment, he considers taking his chances, making a gamble, hoping it all comes out right. 

“We what, Castle?” she asks again, nudging, looking for answers. 

He weighs the options, deciding that at this point, some of her is better than none (although even in this moment, he knows having parts of her will not be enough for much longer).

“I think...we should keep playing,” he says, once again answering with a partial truth.

He’s not sure he understands the flashing question in her eyes, if it’s uncertainty or disappointment or just plain confusion. The look doesn’t last long enough to study well, and whatever it is (or was) she quickly erases and recovers from it, flirting as she asks, “Remember, it was the game we played on Halloween that got us into trouble in the first place.”

“Proof that games, and trouble, are a good idea.”

“What kind of game?”

“No touching.”

She chuckles and asks, “Gonna talk yourself into an orgasm?”

He fakes a glare. “No touching your partner with _hands_. All other touching is allowed and encouraged.” As he speaks, he is busily touching her, warming his fingers against her, indulging in contact while he can.

When his palm smooths over her body and comes to rest on her breast, she smirks, questioning his busily roaming hand in light of the challenge he’s proposed.

He’s staring at his palm on her body, glancing occasionally up to meet her eyes. “It’s like taking a deep breath to fill your lungs before diving way down into the water. Trying to get enough oxygen to last until the next gasp.”

She giggles, her forehead resting on his shoulder momentarily. When her eyes lift to his, openly friendly, the look is warm and tender. Maybe their wants and thoughts about what this is aren’t all that different after all.

The connected intimacy of this look doesn’t falter as she comes closer, kissing him in a way that does nothing to dispel these suspicions. Beckett’s fingers hold his head, deepening the kiss, as her other hand presses affectionately against his chest, and his hand falls over hers between them to hold it in place.

At the same time, she releases the back of his head and pulls her hand from the tight space between his palm and chest, and that withdrawal would concern him, except she’s still kissing him like nothing has broken the spell. 

“Okay,” she whispers.

He realizes that her hands are up in signaled surrender as her lips smile slightly in that way that tempts and ignites. His contact with her body has yet to pause, so she looks down at the way his fingers are tugging her top. Glancing back at him, she raises an eyebrow and asks, “Game on?”

“Yea,” he agrees as soon as he comprehends.

“Castle!” she warns, looking down again at the hands that refuse to release her. “Trying to lose before we start?”

“Right,” he replies like the idea that he’d have to let go had never occurred to him. 

His hands mirror the position of hers, once he finally stops touching her, showing that he is also submitting to the rules of this interaction. Lowering her hands slowly, she hooks her fingers on the edge of the counter. He reaches a bit higher, holding onto the trim above the doorway and the closet, mostly to remind himself not to allow his touch to roam. 

Her lips skim across his, moving to his jaw, taking a slow taste at his neck that makes him groan oh so early on. “Kissing is allowed?” she asks, pausing only long enough to ask the question, but still ‘convincing’ him as she poses the idea.

“Absolutely,” he replies, stepping closer to her, his thigh parting her legs to gain closeness, already imagining her knees cradling his hips. 

She shifts closer, pressing her hips against his, her torso and his lining tight. “Anywhere?”

“Definitely. Just can’t touch with anything beyond your wrists.”

“Any other...bodily contact—”

“Desperately requested,” he chuckles.

“What are we wagering?” she asks, using her forearms to push up his shirt so she can feel the warmth of his body against her stomach (or will be able to once her shirt is gone).

“Winner chooses the terms of the next play session.”

She chuckles and shakes her head, avoiding his stare.

“What?” he challenges. “All too easy?”

“No,” she counters instantly, shrugging out of her coat and leaving it behind her on the counter. 

He does the same, finding the cooling effect of the loss of a layer of clothing refreshing. Castle can’t control his lusty groan as she continues to press against him, his fists balled as he uses his forearms to shimmy up her shirt so he can feel her skin on the sensitive underside of his arms. 

Using her body only, she pushes against his until he’s against the wall on the other side of this little entryway space. Her forearms push his shoulders to the wall, smirking hotly, bringing her face to his chest where she makes quick work of the top four buttons of his shirt, tugging the shirt with her teeth and freeing each clasp like she’s trained for it.

“You know, I’m allowed to touch my own clothes,” he teases, but his head is already scrambled by her. Instead she just stares up at him with desire in her eyes, dropping lower to release those last few buttons of his shirt, the lowest sending his heart racing in anticipation.

He shrugs out of his shirt, once she has it unbuttoned, but she catches it before it hits the floor, holding either side of it so it’s slung behind him. “You aren’t wearing it anymore,” she defends, “so it’s fair game.”

“I wasn’t about to argue,” he counters, watching her step away as she pulls him, using the shirt that’s wrapped around his lower back to drag him into the room. 

When she’s near enough to the bed, he steps back against her so she falls back, dropping to his knees on the floor. They haven’t even taken a moment to put their things in the room, or look around to see where they’re staying, or gaze out the window at the beautiful hillside lit by the starlight. 

Her impatience gets the better of her, and she pops open her own jeans and slides down the zipper, and he doesn’t have to speak to communicate how very hot he finds it that she’s taking off her clothes rather than using this as an opportunity to trick him into using his fingers. 

And even while he’s nonverbally pointing this out to her, she doesn’t hesitate beyond a few seconds to lift her pelvis from the bed and slide her hands into the backs of her jeans to shove them lower on her body. The truth is, this time she wants _him_ more than she wants _the win_. 

_Yea, a lot has changed since that wild Halloween night._

Her shoes are still on, but he pays little attention to that, stepping into the center part of her jeans where they’re balanced near her knees and pushing them down even though her boots won’t let the pants easily work free.

His shoulders slide under her knees after she politely enough lifts them so he can get under, although he knows this has nothing to do with politeness, or a desire to give him a fighting chance in this game. No, her own desire still propels her to provide this access, her longing to have him pleasuring her. His chest puffs with pride that he’s brought her to this point where he no longer has to coax or convince. He has no worry that she’ll reject him right now, in fact, he’s the one keeping the pace from flying out of control.

His mouth covers her, over her panties, breathing hot air against her and noting the dampness that is seeping through. And she is almost immediately frustrated by this limited contact. His tongue moves to the side, tugging the covering away from her. The second wet meets wet, his tongue against her unclothed sex, her back arches and she calls out with a cry she almost always uses when she’s needed him for a while. It shows both satisfaction and impatience all at once, a thundering response that sends a jolt through his body that awakens those less delicate, primal urges that are always there beneath the politeness of this otherwise very modern man.

Even that touch isn’t enough for her after a moment, and she slips her hands under her body, careful not to touch him, pushing her panties down as far as she can. As much as there is practically a demand to tease her about this, his mouth is instantly against her, sucking in tiny pulses that make the heels of her hiking boots dig into his back. But he’s careful, oh so careful, not to allow that pleasure to build to a cresting point. 

The soft sounds of moans and sucks, pants and gasps fill the air, every one of his senses filled with her. He opens his own pants, not wanting to wait long enough for her to touchlessly deal with a belt and button and zipper when she’s finally against him because all of this teasing is making him just as crazy (or crazier) than her. 

The next time he leads her right to the edge of satisfaction and then eases up, she sits up, taking matters back into her control. Practically vaulting herself out of that position, her body slinks down, putting her between him and the bed where he’s kneeling on the floor. Her knees part, resting closer to his elbows than his shoulders now, her pants still caught on her shoes behind his back and her panties annoyingly stretched between them. 

Her mouth moves over his jaw, neck, chest, and he can tell how badly she wants to touch him and just forgo all restrictions.

Their bodies are angling and fighting for closeness, each touching the other in any way they can. He hears the tear of fabric and realizes the underwear between them has ripped at the seams and he can get closer. 

He ends up on his back on the floor, pants open and partially removed, Beckett on top of him. 

She leans down from her seated position perched on his lap and says, “NYPD. You’re in violation of the no-hands-code. So just lie back and cooperate, and no one has to get hurt.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, smiling up at her, soaking in their connection.

Her palms press his hands to the floor and he finally comprehends what she said (quite a miracle given the complexities of thought at this moment) and he says, “Wait. _I’m_ in violation? You’re the one with your hands on mine.”

“You used yours first.”

“I didn’t.”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” she laughs. 

And in truth it’s entirely possible he broke the rules, but he doesn’t _think_ he did. “I…” his voice fades out as she moves against him, sliding her hands under his back, grabbing his ass and pulling him against her. 

“Well, if you don’t concede, there’s only one thing we can do,” she speaks, the breath from her words hitting his ear.

“What’s that?” he asks, taking advantage of the fact that he’s already been accused of losing, and grabbing onto her hips to hold her close as he grinds against her. 

“Have a rematch.”

“Right now?” he asks a little nervously, uncertain as to how effectively his patience will hold out if called to action again.

“No. Has to be a completely fresh round. This match has been compromised.”

She looks happy, so happy, free of worry and oh so into him and this moment. 

Climbing down his body, she licks softly at his sex, careful to provoke and tease but not to allow things to go too far. And he considers stopping her, but finds the rest of his body unwilling to listen to any command to move.

She stands, yanking his shoes off as he gets rid of his pants, the pair working together on her remaining clothes. She pulls back the fluffy quilt over the bed and flops down right in the middle of some kind of otherworldly pillow top comfort, and waits for him. 

“Come here,” she says. “I need you.”

This, too, paralyzes some parts of him, mostly his brain, but he manages to say, “You do?”

“Hell yea.”

He jumps in the bed beside her with all the vigor he feels, enough that she bounces slightly up from the surface when he makes impact. Feeling downright joyful, he pulls the covers up over them, lying next to her, waiting while the blankets tent over their heads and bodies. 

She rests her leg on his hip, still facing him. She repeats the sentiment, “I want—I _need_ you right now.”

“Me too, Kate.”

“I can admit it, you know?”

“Admit what?”

“That I like sex with you, and working cases with you, and...I even like the spaces in between.”

“Enough to...have a few more of them?”

Pausing, letting her face hide in the crux of his shoulder and neck for just a moment, she finally replies, “Yea. If you want to.”

“I do.”

His touch grows bolder, firmer, more needful, becoming desperate to share this encounter for both the needs of his soul and body. The hunger builds, and their bodies slide together until they’re joined completely.

There, in that cocoon of fluffy white sheets, they find their union once more. And it’s completely clear, no matter what either would say or think, that what is shared between them is built on a spark of love that seems to flare a bit more brightly tonight. 

And tonight they’re far from the cautious and dangerous games of Halloween night, or the uncertain meeting at a rave, or the tender meeting they shared after she made a difficult choice and saved his life. This day was about joy and life, about openness and sharing, about letting something that was something else become something _more._

Everything is more: the passion, the desire, the connectedness. And after all that build up, not just from the sexy game they played, but from a whole day of togetherness, the sex is explosive. Because love doesn’t have to be sweet and gentle. It can be fiery and fierce and joyful and exciting. 

Her rapture hits her so powerfully that it seems to take her forever to recover, hanging on to him as he holds her close long after those first pulses began. And he’s oddly weightless and heavy all at once as he recovers from his own explosion of pleasure. 

She curls next to him, as she often does these last few times, and starts to drift into relaxation. Not sleep, but that lovely semi-conscious state one sometimes attains when thoughts are few, pain is absent, and all seems fine in the world. 

The thoughts that come, when they finally return to his head, focus on how much he enjoys all of this. Yes, from their first encounter, he has relished every second of getting her off, bringing her to orgasm and wringing every last bit of pleasure from her time after time. But as much as he wants to provoke and enhance those sorts of reactions, he also desperately wants to bring her joy, the kind of guilt-free fun she had today. 

Her index finger rests in the dip beneath his lips and above his chin, and he glances at her, noting only the way it feels like nothing exists in this universe beyond the space immediately around them. 

She trails her touch over his chin, and faintly down the ridges in his throat. That one finger rests on the spot just below his neck, and then moves over his collarbone until it joins his shoulder. Without breaking contact, she traces back over that same bone, coming to the center of his breastbone, moving down one rib, and then tracing that one, and the next, and the next, pausing to further investigate various parts of him along the way, whether a bruise they made together, or a nipple, or a few tiny scars left from the recklessness of boyhood. 

It feels like any words would be an interruption. He is the subject of intense, although not judgmental, scrutiny. She’s trying to learn things, study, and every last bit of her attention is on him. 

It feels wonderful and a little intimidating to be the subject of such focus, but he remains silent, letting the feeling of her touch and her stare and her breath permeate him. 

After she finishes the other side, her palm rests flat on his stomach. He takes her hand, slides it up to his chest, squeezing her wrist affectionately. But it’s his turn now.

 _Will she ever be able to remain still, to be the subject of such deep study?_ He touches her cheekbone near the side of her face, following it up over the bridge of her nose, brushing her cheek with the back of his finger. As he moves over the skin above her lip, her eyes flutter softly closed and she looks so intensely relaxed. 

This is the most intensely intimate nonsexual experience he can recall, feeling the need to say nothing. 

But there’s no way either of them will be able to deny what’s going on here. Not after today.

At one point their eyes meet, and it feels so much like something should happen. Someone should make a declaration or throw down a challenge. His brain scrambles for the right thing, finding clear thought hidden somewhere beyond miles of fog. 

Finally he remembers that they’ll have tomorrow together here, and he finds his route. “So,” he says, his voice unclear and gravelly, “we have two options for dinner tomorrow night.”

Her expression shows she expects a joke or salacious suggestion, but he continues, “There’s a restaurant/bar kind of thing about a mile away. Great food, amazing beer, live band, fun atmosphere kinda place.”

“And the other option?” she prompts. 

“More of a...candlelight, wine, and soft music option.”

“You know us cops. We like our burgers, pizzas, and beer.”

Trying to decipher if she’s eschewing the romantic choice for personal preference or to keep things casual, he tries not to sound a little disappointed. “Okay. Beer and—”

“But,” she interrupts, “I’m not just a cop. I enjoy conversation and wine, too. I like a little…”

“Candlelight?” he finally finishes her thoughts.

“Sure.”

“A hint of romance?” 

“Maybe,” Beckett nods, biting her lip to wrangle her smile.

“I was really hoping that was going to be your answer,” he says, pulling her a bit roughly into his arms and seeing the flash in her eyes.


End file.
